I cannot live with you
by lucy2point0
Summary: Why has Vaughn's life become that much better…and that much worse after meeting Sydney??? Spoilers up to Counteragent.


**I cannot live with you**

By: lucy2point0, email: lucy2point0@hotmail.com

Rating: G-PG

Spoilers: Up to and including Counteragent in Season 2. 

Disclaimer: This fantastic Alias world is SO not mine, but it does belong to JJ Abrams, ABC and everyone else who is involved with the show.

Notes:  This little angsty poem-ficlet came out of the quote Vaughn made to Irina about how his life has become that much better…and that much worse after meeting Sydney. 

Which made me think, how did he come to that conclusion? Does Vaughn really decide to distance himself away from Sydney? Here's my shot at it… 

The timeline of this fic is more or less between when he's been recovering and right up to his visit Irina to answer her questions.

The poem is by Emily Dickinson. Stanzas for the poem begin and end with "///"

Whew, finally done after 2 months!

Feedback: Of course!

**[Monday afternoon]**

He hadn't slept in almost a day.

And he couldn't wait to go home, which he found incredibly ironic. The doctors and nursing staff had been nothing but courteous, supportive and efficient. 

He would have been content to stay and convalesce in the hospital for as long as the doctors thought necessary, but a visit from Jack Bristow the day before had changed all that.

**[Sunday afternoon]**

_"Am I dying?"_

_"Almost. Sydney got the antidote. The doctors say your blood levels are looking good."_

_"How did she do it?"_

_"She had Sloane killed."___

///  
I cannot live with you,  
It would be life,  
And life is over there  
Behind the shelf

The sexton keeps the key to,  
Putting up  
Our life, his porcelain, Discarded of the housewife,  
Like a cup

Quaint or broken;  
A newer Sevres pleases,  
Old ones crack.  
///

**[Sunday night]**

He had turned Jack's words over and over in his mind for hours afterwards. Recalled his expression, which shifted from stony, to resigned, and back again. 

He had gotten the message Jack was trying to say. Sydney had finally crossed that unspoken line where she knowingly, voluntarily had one man's life exchanged for his.

And the fact that Jack was here at all told him that he was acknowledging, somewhat grudgingly, how truly important he was to Sydney, and the lengths she would go to save him.

///  
I could not die with you  
For one must wait  
To shut the other's gaze down,---  
You could not.

And I, could I stand by  
And see you freeze,  
Without my right of frost,  
Death's privilege?  
///

**[Monday morning]**

Given his exposure to the liquid, the doctors were not 100% sure that the antidote would completely eradicate the virus once and for all. 

He wondered what else was lying dormant inside him now, other than traces of the virus.

Did he have it in him, that capability, to do the same thing? Would he ever sacrifice someone's life to save another? To save Sydney's, if it came to that?

Sure. Theoretically, yes. But *could* he ever do it? Even for her? Could he make just one more sacrifice on top of all the other times he put himself on the line for her? 

For something that could not, might not ever come to pass between them?

The fact that he had no clear answer, even after pondering over it all night, troubled him.

///  
Nor could I rise with you,  
Because your face  
Would put out Jesus',  
That new grace

Glow plain and foreign  
On my homesick eye,  
Except than you, than he  
Shone closer by.

They'd judge us—how?  
For you served Heaven, you know,  
Or sought to;  
I could not,  
///

**[Monday, early evening]**

Alice had come by after work, and sat with him for a short bit.

Bacterial pneumonia, he had told her. He had been working a lot of late hours under stress, which probably contributed to the sudden onset. The doctors had said that they would like to keep him under observation for a few more days, and then have him released to recover at home.

She was relieved and thankful that the doctors were taking good care of him. And that people at his work were concerned for his well-being too.

"You know, Rita, your friend from work? Tall, with long brunette hair? I met her the other day when you were admitted to the hospital."

It took him a moment to figure out whom she meant. Her description of Sydney was…accurate, but those would never have been the words he'd have chosen to adequately describe her.

///  
Because you saturated sight,  
And I had no more eyes  
For sordid excellence  
As Paradise.

And were you lost, I would be,  
Though my name  
Rang loudest  
On the heavenly fame.  
///

**[Monday evening]**

She had forgotten to take her book with her when she left. She probably had been reading it and had brought it in with her when she was finally admitted into the ward. Stuck with no magazines, or even a TV to watch, he picked up her book---of Emily Dickinson poems---off of the bedside table, and began to leaf through it.

Everything about the book reminded him of her…Alice. Fresh, crisp, uncreased. But before long his thoughts strayed to a tattered and heavily-underlined version he saw in a campus bloodmobile recently.

**[2 months earlier]**

He had finished briefing her for her next countermission and as she got up he caught a glimpse of her book. He had suggested that maybe she should get herself a new copy since the old one clearly had seen better days. Sydney had said that it was one of the first books she had ever bought and that she'd never part with it…so he had tossed her a roll of medical tape.

_"Here. You'll need an epic tape job to keep that book in one piece."_

He remembered her laughing and then becoming contemplative as she looked at the tape, her book and then finally him. She tossed the roll back to him, with a tired smile.

_"Yeah. You got a bigger roll?"_

They both knew she wasn't talking about the tape job to keep her book together.

**[Monday evening]**

_…I cannot live with you…_

It was the first line of the poem that caught his eye. He skimmed it and then re-read it again to take in the full effect. After a few minutes he closed the book and placed it on the bedside table.

The poem described exactly what he had been feeling about Sydney the past few days.

So why then, did it not make matters simpler? Why didn't it make following the rules, the protocols between a handler and his agent—as Weiss was fond of reminding him--that much easier?

His inner voice mocked him.

_Because you still don't know how she feels about you. And you wear your emotions on your sleeve when she's around you…even now...like a lovesick high school geek and she's oblivious to it. Doofus._

The sedative finally kicked in. He fell asleep.

///  
And were you saved,  
And I condemned to be  
Where you were not,  
That self were hell to me.

So we must keep apart,  
You there, I here,  
With just the door ajar  
That oceans are,  
And prayer,  
And that pale sustenance,  
Despair!  
///

**[Tuesday evening]**

He had felt a marginal weight lift off of him when he had found out Sloane hadn't been killed. That in fact it was a ploy by Sark to ingratiate himself with the Alliance.

But he was still troubled by the fact that he still felt unsure of himself, about Sydney.

And that he'd be going to see her mother soon to voice his thoughts on the very same subject. 

**[Thursday, late afternoon]**

The doctors had told him yesterday that he had been recovering quickly enough to warrant a complete discharge today. When asked if he needed arrangements to get a ride home, he nodded, but said he needed to make a stop on the way home.

The ride to the command center where Irina was held was going to take 45 minutes. Which would give him plenty of time to compose what he wanted to say to her.

But what could you possibly say to a woman who is wily enough to read between the lines and discern what you really mean?

Play it straight. Get to the point. Answer as simply as you can, and then get out. 

Surrrrrrrre.

**[Thursday evening]**

"I got it from here, thanks." If he was going to talk to her he wanted to do it standing on his own two feet. Standing up slowly from his wheelchair, he walked slowly to her cell. The closer he got to her cell the more hesitant he became. But he was obligated to answer her questions. He waited until she faced him before he spoke.

"You asked me some questions. I told you I'd answer them if you helped me. You did help me and I thank you for that." 

Looking at some indeterminate point in front of her she speaks. "I didn't do it for you. " Now her gaze is focused on him, dark and fathomless.

He began with what little he could come up with during the ride over. "I'm trying to live a normal life, which was always hard given what I do but it's gotten harder since I met your daughter. It's not that knowing her hasn't made my life better. It has."  The fact she wasn't looking at him at all as he spoke told him there wasn't anything that she didn't already know. 

He took a breath and finally voiced the thing that had been nagging at him for the past few days. "But it's also made it that much worse." He felt her eyes on him suddenly…he could tell she was assessing him more thoroughly at those words. Time to cut things short. "I think I've said enough."

"The problem, Mr. Vaughn, is that to the one person who matters, you haven't said anything."

He shook his head imperceptibly and felt his temper flare. How could she not understand that he was trying to protect Sydney, for her…and his own good? That sometimes you have to make the painful choice of following, of sticking to the rules so that you don't, no--you *can't* get hurt anymore?

"Listen, this may not mean anything to you. This may not be something you can understand or appreciate, but we have rules. Very clear and important rules that govern the relationship between a handler and his asset."  Maybe this time he would be able to leave with the final word.

She fired back with a volley that cut him to the quick. "And between a man and a woman?

He stood there for a long moment, staring hard at her before he finally left---at a complete loss for words. 

He waited on the other side as the bars leading to Irina's cell clanged shut. Waving away the wheelchair, he told the guard that he would be on his way to the escort car when the guard replied that Agent Bristow was upstairs, waiting for him.

Frowning, he asked the guard if it was Jack Bristow who wanted to see him, but the guard shook his head.

"It's Agent Sydney Bristow who wants to see you."

Sighing inwardly, he nodded as he stepped into the waiting elevator. Seconds later he was through the doors to the command center where he saw her waiting for him.

_'Stick to the rules, starting now'_, he told himself. He'd keep his distance, thank Sydney for saving his life, go home…and…

The look of joy and relief when she finally saw him come through the doors made him realize that the promise he had been trying to keep for the past year would be tougher now. Knowing what she had done for him. But how could he keep his own promise now when he can see she's near to tears at seeing him?

"Hi", she whispers.

He whispers hi back to her and they hug. Now she is crying openly. He thanks her and as he hugs her back he thinks maybe the renewed promise he made to himself mere seconds ago can wait…for now.

**(the end)**


End file.
